Chapter 7 - The Ambush at St. Jude’s
Three days later, the trap was sprung.
It happened in broad daylight, in the quiet, tree-lined medical district outside St. Jude’s Children’s Clinic, where Claire had spent her morning delivering charitable donations from the foundation. Dominic had doubled her security detail, placing four armed men in a follow car behind her armored Mercedes sedan, with Marcus personally driving the lead vehicle.
Dominic himself was three miles away, concluding a critical deposition with the federal prosecutors, when the secure radio in his pocket crackled to life with static and gunfire.
""Code Red! Code Red on Pine Street!"" Marcus’s voice roared through the speaker over the deafening rattle of automatic weapons. ""Two black garbage trucks boxed us in at the intersection! We have multiple shooters on the rooftops! Boss, they're using armor-piercing rounds!""
Dominic’s blood ran cold. The world went dead silent around him. Without a word to the stunned prosecutors, he vaulted over the conference table, drew his concealed sidearm from his shoulder holster, and bolted toward the private elevator.
""Dominic, wait!"" his lead attorney shouted.
""If a single hair on her head is harmed,"" Dominic snarled as the elevator doors slammed shut, ""burn this entire city to ash.""
On Pine Street, smoke billowed from the crushed hood of the security SUV. Marcus was firing through the shattered windshield of the Mercedes, his tactical training keeping the panic at bay as bullets sparked furiously against the reinforced ballistic glass.
Inside the rear cabin, Claire was huddled on the floorboards, her hands pressed tightly over her ears. The concussive thuds of high-caliber rounds striking the passenger door sounded like sledgehammers against an iron anvil. The glass was spider-webbing, turning opaque white under the relentless barrage.
""Mrs. Vale! Stay down!"" Marcus yelled, slamming a fresh magazine into his pistol. ""The door won't hold another thirty seconds!""
Suddenly, the unmistakable roar of an eight-cylinder engine tore through the sirens and gunfire.
A heavy, matte-black Dodge Ram—Dominic’s personal armored utility truck—came screaming around the corner, entirely ignoring the curb. Dominic didn't tap the brakes. He slammed the massive steel bumper directly into the side of the lead attacker’s vehicle, sending the sedan spinning across the asphalt like a discarded toy, crushing two gunmen against the brick wall of the clinic.
Dominic kicked his door open before his truck had even come to a complete halt.
He didn't seek cover. He moved with the terrifying, lethal precision of a man who had made violence an art form. His gun barked three times in rapid succession; three snipers on the low brick fire escape tumbled forward into the alleyway below.
The remaining two mercenaries turned to run, but Marcus pushed out of the Mercedes, dropping one with a clean shot through the thigh while Dominic cornered the last man against the iron gate of the courtyard.
Dominic grabbed the shooter by the throat, lifting him six inches off the pavement with one arm, slamming him against the wrought iron until the metal groaned under the impact.
""Who sent you?"" Dominic whispered, his face completely devoid of human warmth. His dark eyes were bottomless pits of pure, unadulterated death. ""Tell me, or I will feed you to the river piece by piece.""
""Vance's... Vance's son!"" the man choked out, clawing desperately at Dominic's iron grip. ""Julian Vance! He hired us out of Baltimore! He's at the private airfield in Blue Bell right now... trying to board a chartered jet to the Bahamas!""
Dominic dropped the man like a sack of wet cement. He didn't bother shooting him; Marcus immediately clamped zip-ties around the man's wrists.
Dominic turned and ripped open the rear door of the bullet-riddled Mercedes.
Claire was still crouched on the floor, shaking uncontrollably, her eyes wide with terror. When she saw Dominic’s broad frame silhouetted against the daylight, his coat torn, a smear of soot across his cheek, a ragged sob tore from her throat.
""Dominic!""
Dominic climbed into the rear cabin, dropping to his knees, wrapping his powerful arms around her with breathtaking tenderness. He didn't touch her back; he cradled her head against his neck, his hand buried in her hair, pulling her trembling body into his chest until their hearts beat against each other in wild syncopation.
""I have you,"" Dominic breathed, his own voice breaking as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the sweet, comforting scent of lavender. ""I have you, baby. You're safe. Nobody touches you ever again.""
Claire clung to his lapels, crying into his shirt, but as she looked over his shoulder at the smoking wreckage of the street, the fear in her eyes hardened into something entirely new.
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""Julian Vance,"" she whispered against his collar. ""He was the one who paid for the hit at Pier Twelve, wasn't he? It wasn't just the old man.""
Dominic kissed her temple, his jaw hardening into granite. ""He won't make it to the runway.""
